


Companionship

by cryingcryptids (tatterwitch)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Incubus Keith, Innuendo, M/M, Violence, Witcher AU, Witcher Shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatterwitch/pseuds/cryingcryptids
Summary: “You’ll hear nothing of worth when your presence is as suspicious as it is, Witcher.” The incubus’ voice is every bit as dark and pleasing as his form. “Folk come here for two things and two things only; fucking and trouble.”Hot needles race up the back of Shiro’s neck and threaten his cheeks. He frowns and against his higher mind, chances a look up at the incubus across from him.This close, he can spot the ghost of gold around the creature’s irises. Striations of blue and violet and black seem to shift and move within those uncanny eyes. Pink lips shine faintly, like they’d just been kissed soundly.The incubus leans closer, brows lifting a touch beneath the fall of his hair.“So which is, Witcher. Are you here for fucking or for trouble?”





	Companionship

Wind rattles the shutters over the inn’s windows. The sound is barely audible over the din within the tavern portion. That and the whines and wails that have nothing at all to do with the winter storm are blanketed by the strains of charmed instruments, soft song, and the rolling raucous of the patrons.   
  


Shiro turns the mug of hot ale between his hands. The bottom grates faintly against the table-top. A stray splinter pulls at a loose thread near the hem of his sleeve. He works it free and tries not to mind the loop of thread left behind.   
  


A warm hand trails over his shoulders, not the first and probably not that last.  
  


He peers up from the ambery surface of his drink with a flat but not unkind look.   
  


Miles of dark, unblemished skin slow in the light cast from the fire, lanterns, and charmed disks overhead. Thin, gauzy fabric the color of winter skies drapes over soft hips and even softer breasts. Pale pink markings curve over her body, not an inch of her really obscured by the diaphanous material of her clothing. Long, pale hair falls over her shoulder as she leans over his table.  
  


“Your kind doesn’t often frequent places like this.”  
  


The succubus is fishing and Shiro doesn’t rise to the bait. He lifts his brows slightly and nods carefully.   
  


“I’m not in the mood for companionship.”  
  


Eyes like polished stone sparkle as she laughs.   
  


“You’re a good deal more polite than any patron we’ve had. What a charming Witcher.” A claw, painted silver and filed to a delicate point, taps inches from his left hand. “Whatever you’re hunting, you won’t find it amongst us. But I do sincerely wish you luck. And should you need _companionship_ , ask for me.”  
  


The succubus moves away, satin-slippered feet dancing over the floor.   
  


Shiro returns his attention to his surroundings.   
  


All his hunches and tracking had led him to this city. In his experience, it paid to investigate the local haunts and places like this.   
  


The door above the stairs opens, hinges squeaking faintly.   
  


Shiro turns his mug again as he peers past the shadows of the stairs.   
  


Pale skin almost seems to shimmer in the firelight, opalescent. Bands of gold wrap around lean arms. Swathes of filmy wine-colored fabric drape just-so over broad shoulders and narrow hips. Inky hair, plaited back and pinned with rings of gold, falls around sharp cheeks and pointed ears. Sleek black horns curve back and away from a face that Shiro can’t help but stare at.   
  


The stray thought sends hot needles prickling through Shiro’s limbs. He frowns inwardly and returns his attention to the task at hand.   
  


Conversations that had previously flowed easy stutter and halt in the wake of the newcomer’s path. It takes them a moment to pick up again and even when they do, all matters of worth have long since been abandoned.   
  


Heat simmers over Shiro’s skin ad against his will, he looks up once more.  
  


Eyes like violets in summer glint in the lantern-light. Blush-pink lips curl at one corner as those eyes snare his.   
  


It’s like falling, the feeling that comes over Shiro. Something in him plummets in a dizzying spiral of heat and desire. It’s like siren’s call.  
 

Shiro digs his fingertips into the walls of his mug. A splinter catches at the edge of a callous and bites its way beneath his skin. The tiny flicker of pain is enough to grant him a distraction.   
  


The silver-haired succubus dances into the path of the newcomer. She stands on her toes, one hand delicately lifted over her mouth as she whispers into his ear.   
  


Shiro does not look directly at the dark-haired incubus again. He keeps a wary watch out of the corner of his eye and concentrates on listening for anything that could help him with his current bounty.   
  


The night waxes on.  
  


Patrons trail after their chosen companions and climb the stairs to the private rooms above. The sturdy build of the place isn’t enough to completely mask their doings, even with the sounds of the storm outside.   
  


Succubi and incubi slide over laps; silks and satin riding higher than appropriate. Hands drift in subtly lascivious ways, tracing paths of want over weak chests. Carefully practiced laughter rings out like bells and timbrels. Perfumes mix with the scents of smoke, ale, and winter.   
  


Long, lithe limbs move past Shiro’s table more often than aught be necessary. Dark hair shines in the light and Shiro ignores the needling thought of whether it’s as soft as it appears to be.   
  


The place is nearly empty when the bench across from Shiro suddenly fills.  
  


Shiro doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to.   
  


Slender fingers play over the table-top in a seemingly aimless pattern. Wine-colored fabric shifts, making no real effort in hiding the lines of the incubus’ body. The shadow of dusky nipples peeks through the fine fabric. The planes of his body are somehow strong and delicate all at once.   
  


Shiro exhales sharply and grits his teeth against the sensation of swooping low in his belly.  
  


“I’m not here for-”  
  


“You’ll hear nothing of worth when your presence is as suspicious as it is, Witcher.” The incubus’ voice is every bit as dark and pleasing as his form. “Folk come here for two things and two things only; fucking and trouble.”  
  


Hot needles race up the back of Shiro’s neck and threaten his cheeks. He frowns and against his higher mind, chances a look up at the incubus across from him.  
  


This close, he can spot the ghost of gold around the creature’s irises. Striations of blue and violet and black seem to shift and move within those uncanny eyes. Pink lips shine faintly, like they’d just been kissed soundly.   
  


The incubus leans closer, brows lifting a touch beneath the fall of his hair.   
  


“So which is, Witcher. Are you here for fucking or for trouble?”  
  


Shiro stills his lungs in an attempt to clear his mind. He exhales after a moment and tries to push some of the tension from his jaw.   
  


“I’m not here for-” Shiro’s mind replays the way the incubus’ lower lip had looked caught between his teeth on the word. Heat makes his tongue trip. “Companionship. And the only trouble that I get into is that which seeks me.”  
  


Violet eyes narrow almost playfully. His smile grows, allowing a glimpse of delicately curved fangs.  
 

“What an odd Witcher you are.” Slender fingers trail over the table-top, a mere hairsbreadth from Shiro’s. “If you change your mind about the matter of _companionship_ , ask for ‘Keith’ at the bar.”  
  


Keith rises from the bench and moves away. The gold and bits of precious stone in his hair glint like little stars. Between the play of firelight and the casted colors of his clothing, Keith’s body ripples with movement and shadows. Dimples peek at the bottom of his spine and draw the eyes effortlessly downward.  
  


Shiro swallows hard and lifts his mug for the first time. The ale is flat and tepid. He swallows it down despite the awry taste.   
  


Keith passes by his table too often, Shiro comes to realize. There are more convenient paths to walk and yet the incubus always goes out of his way to saunter past Shiro’s watchpoint. His gaze weighs like a touch on Shiro’s skin. It drifts across his shoulders, down his back, over the tops of his cheeks.   
  


Dawn creeps closer.   
  


The tavern nearly empties apart from Shiro, the barkeep, a few succubi and incubi, and a trio of drunken patrons.   
  


The three men slosh their drinks as they laugh, too loud and obnoxious, and jeer at the succubi. Their language grates against Shiro’s ears, vulgar as it is.   
  


It all worsens when something in the atmosphere shifts.   
  


Keith saunters past again, sparing Shiro only the barest of glances as he wanders in the midst of the men. Hands, stained permanently with soil and work, grope at bared skin. He topples across a lap as fingers dig into the meat of his thighs.  
  


Something heady spills off of him; a scent that makes Shiro’s whole body go hot and his skin feel too tight. His blood rushes, roaring like thunder in his ears. Ale spills across the table as his mug tips. The bench falls, boom loud enough to startle the men in the corner.  
  


Worsted wool bunches under his fingers. Breath that reeks of ale and rotting teeth gusts across his face before he shoves hard. A fist flies wide and lands against his armor. Its owner snarls and reels back with a second try. He gets knocked onto his ass for his tenacity.   
  


Shiro stoops beneath another comically wide swing and hoists Keith over his shoulder.  
  


The incubus makes a startled, but not displeased, noise behind Shiro’s back.   
  


One man launches himself at Shiro and earns himself an elbow to the nose for his efforts. He bumps into a couple of his comrades and they fall together, limbs tangling in an unwieldly heap.   
  


Warm breath and warmer hands wind their way between the layers of Shiro’s armor and clothing.   
  


“Upstairs. Sixth door on the left side.” Keith dabbles his fingers along the sliver of skin he exposes at Shiro’s hip.   
  


Shiro takes the steps two at a time. Keith’s thighs flex to remain balanced, muscle playing under soft skin.   
  


Old wood creaks softly, smooth with age and wear. Lanterns hang from sculpted hooks by each door. Ambery flames flicker low, guttering in the draft of Shiro’s passing. Cool metal turns easily under his hand. The door opens with the quietest of squeaks.  
  


Keith moves before Shiro can pass the threshold. His hands slide up Shiro’s back even as his thighs widen. His knees catch at Shiro’s hips and he tosses his head back to shake the hair out of his eyes.   
  


The scent of spice and something sweetly wild makes Shiro’s head fog again.   
  


Claws prick along the back of his neck as Keith’s legs tense. Warm, honeyed breath eases over his chin. Those wild violet eyes glint in the light of the dozens of candles that leap to life with a wave of Shiro’s hand.  
  


“I thought you mentioned something about being here neither for trouble nor companionship.”  
  


Shiro swallows hard as Keith leans in, lips a mere breath away from his own. Heat crawls through his veins and slithers beneath his skin like a living thing. Its talons rake up his spine in a path that mirrors the one Keith’s hands take.  
  


“I didn’t come here for those things, no.”  
  


One dark brow arches. Keith tips his face closer, tongue flickering out to gloss his lower lip. Gauzy fabric slips, sliding free of one pale shoulder.  
  


The hot talons at the base of Shiro’s spine dig in deep.  
  


“I changed my mind.”


End file.
